


Agent Finn's (Alternative) Employment History

by Nope



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Dark Tower - Stephen King, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-18
Updated: 2006-09-24
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: Five jobs Riley never has





	1. Restless Bounce

"One, two, a-one-two-three-four!" Riley drummed out the timing on his seat, watching his men drill. "Watch your footing there, soldier! That's the way. Head up, chest out, shoulders back - good posture is half-the-battle!"

Perhaps he was laying on the Sergeant routine a bit thick, but he was proud of his boys; they'd come a long way, especially now his 'real' job was over with and he could devote more time to their training. A bit of discipline and a good routine and -- the hardest bit of all -- getting them to believe in themselves had turned the sloppy, rag-tag bunch into a skilled and close-knit group. Okay, maybe their ball handling needed a little more work but--

"Coach?" Jay called, "there's a guy here, says he wants to talk to you."

Riley looked round, expecting to see Graham or one of the other guys -- they dropped in from time to time to shoot the breeze and a few hoops -- but the waiting man was a relative stranger, a captain he'd met only once and briefly. The man, smaller than Riley and squinting uneasily in the glare of the floodlights, looked uncomfortable and military in his dark suit, tie and buzz cut. Leaving his players to keep practicing, Riley headed over in an easy, loping stride, throwing a snappy salute as soon as he was close enough.

The man automatically saluted back, quickly dropping his hand. "No need for that now you're a civilian, ha ha," he said.

Riley nodded. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

"Oh, just routine, nothing too much to worry about, a few enquiries, for our records, you understand, the usual bureaucracy, ha ha." The man's lips twitched in an approximation of a smile. Riley remained politely silent, at parade ease, until the man cleared his throat nervously and continued. "There's just been a few questions about, well, I understand you were granted some small benefits by the military to replace your lost income, and there's some question about how its being spent."

"I wasn't aware there were restrictions on what I could buy, sir," said Riley.

"Oh, no, no, no, not as such, no," the man said, "but there's some concern, some small, no doubt unfounded concern, that you might be, well, having a bit of trouble adjusting to civilian life, it's only been a few months after all, and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, there's some concern that you're using our money to fund some sort of civilian anti-hostile subterrestrial militia, ha ha."

Riley smiled politely.

"If you don't mind answering a few questions...?"

"Of course."

"It's just, lets see," the man pulled out a small black notebook, "we understand you've been taking long drives on changing routes around the Sunnydale area. Nothing wrong with that, of course, it's just that, well, it does maybe appear, to some people, that you were scouting for demon haunts."

"I like to drive," Riley said. "It's very relaxing, don't you find?"

"Well, I, uh, I play golf, myself, I--" The man had to raise his voice to be heard over the crash of balls against the backboard. "Um, there's also the order for all these sun-lamp bulbs?"

Riley nodded at the floods. "For night games, sir. They're cheaper and more energy-efficient than the usual. Good for the environment."

"And the two dozen stakes, four swords, two axes and assorted sundry weapons?"

"Yes, about those..." Riley gave the man a sheepish smile.

"Now, now," the man said, smiling genially, "everyone falls back into old habits from time to--"

"They're not mine," Riley hastened to explain. "I sort of overdid the presents for Buffy."

"Buffy...?"

"Buffy Summers. My girlfriend," Riley prompted him, "the slayer? You'll remember she was the one that saved so many people during the fall of the Initiative."

"Of course, of course, most grateful and all that, yes, well, so, uh, how, how are you spending your time?"

"I've been coaching basketball for some of the local teenagers," Riley said. "It keeps them occupied and out of trouble. I like to give a bit back to the community. Charity is after all part of our Christian duty. And they're good kids." He waved a hand at where the others had stopped practicing and were now waiting silently in two neat lines, staring in their direction. "Would you like to join in, Captain? They're always ready for a little two-on-two."

The man took a quick step backwards. "No, no, thank you, no, taken up enough of your time, clearly no problem here, Agent -- ah, Mister Finn. Wouldn't want to hang around too much after dark, attract the attention of some HSTs, ha ha."

"No," said Riley, evenly. "You wouldn't."

"...right, yes." The man swallowed. "That'll be all. Thank you. Good night."

"Good night," Riley said with a friendly smile. "Drive safely."

The man nodded and quickly took his leave, darting glances left and right as he hurried to his car. Riley watched until the man had driven away, then turned back to his players.

"Problems, coach?" one asked, basketball tucked under one arm.

"Nothing important," Riley said. "Right, then. Everyone properly warmed up?" There were nods. "All prepared? Stakes?"

"Wouldn't come to a night game without them," Jay said, and there was a chorus of agreement, nods and grins.

Riley smiled back. "Right then -- let's go!"


	2. Practised Defence

They'd been clearing out the back of the magic shop in preparation for Buffy when Riley first found it, a recent issue of a magazine called Magic Matters with a page corner folded down, marking a spot its previous and quite deceased owner would now never come back to read. When Riley mentioned it to Giles, the man mumbled something and transience and the human condition and rustled paperwork and polished his glasses until Riley went away. Dawn 'eww'ed and called him morbid, grinning all the while, which made him laugh and tickle her the way she hated. Xander nodded, serious, agreed that it sucked, and then asked Riley for help with the carpentry and it was an hour later before Riley realised he'd been deliberately distracted.

Later, after Buffy and his pathetic, desperate attempts to get her attention, her need, the way she is always his sun, his moon, his stars, after he's once more left on the fringes with a bad taste in the back of his throat, he came back to it. Memento mori in cheap glossy print and harsh colours, and he's a soldier and he knows just how fragile a thing life is and he doesn't know why it holds his attention the way it does. Just a circled request in a page of want ads, some small purpose for a future now never attainable. What did it matter?

Except, of course, it did.

Not that he could exactly have explained why, of course. No, that'd've been far too easy. Stupid brain. His army bosses had always said he thought too much for his own good. Maggie had liked that in him. Up until Buffy, anyway. Maggie had had her project for a better world. Buffy had the slayer gig. Xander was getting his carpenter on. Giles and Anya had the magic shop now. Willow was college girl. And he had... what? Too much thinking time, an advert in a magazine, and a magic shop all to himself. So what's it going to be, ex-Agent Finn?

Screw it. It wasn't like he hadn't already made a fool of himself at least twice today. And the powder box and fireplace were right there...

Ten minutes later, brushing soot off himself while being offered sherbet lemons by a long-bearded hippie in a dress, he was already starting to regret the decision. And here was magic school: the stair cases moved, the paintings talked, the chemistry teacher appeared to be attempting death-by-malevolent-stare, and, despite the loud babble of the rushing children, he was getting that same sense of lingering, underlying fear that so pervaded Sunnydale. He asked if it was a Hellmouth and they told him about the war and what his part in it would be.

"We want to teach them to fight without their wands as much as with them," the hippie said. "We want to give them ways to think that our enemies will never anticipate because they avoid all things Muggle."

They asked about his experience. He told them about being a teaching assistant, taking the occasional lecture. He told them about nights in Sunnydale, about his heart in his throat, his breath burning in his lungs, about fear and adrenaline, terror and joy, about monsters in the shape of men exploding into dust under his hand. He did not mention Maggie. He did not mention Adam. He did not mention Buffy. They told him there was a werewolf on staff and he smiled and told them about Oz and the chemistry man glared harder but the others softened and settled and smiled.

"The pay is atrocious," they said, "but you might give children the edge that makes the difference between life and death."

Riley thought about things left undone, things that never would be done. Maggie was dead. His career -- Agent Finn was just as dead. And Riley could go home every day if he didn't mind a little soot on the way. The best of both worlds.

The hippie smiled, eyes twinkling. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Finn."


	3. The Shadow Rose

Both hands on the gun, raise and squeeze, nice and smooth. Stance without thought, prefect isosceles. Shot echoes overlap ba-blam! Two in the head, five in the chest, and down and reload and up and. Irritated and impressed noises from the others as he pivots, puts a kill shot in each of their targets. Shoulders loose and limber. Arms strong. Eyes clear. Blam! Blam! Blam! And done.

"Good shooting," says Graham. There's something in his eyes, admonishment perhaps, a question or five. 

Riley thumbs the safety back on and nods and says 'thanks' and doesn't look. The paper corpses swing as they approach on a rumble of motors, two clean holes in the head, ragged close group blur in the chest. Broken hearted dolls.

His arm itches. Bites scab over.

It's... Riley doesn't know. Early. Late. Days gone blurry without the routine of work to mark them out. No classes. No, here at nine, there at two. No set patrols. It's day time, he knows that much. The sun is up. It's warm in the streets. Pleasant, almost.

Buffy will be at the hospital, he thinks.

There's no need for him to go there, but he finds himself heading that way anyway. He doesn't drive. Sunnydale's not like LA. It's easy to walk around. So he walks. Takes longer. Kills time.

Waiting for the sun to go down, says the voice in his head. That what you want?

He doesn't know what he wants. He wants something. He wants Buffy. He's sure of that. Pretty sure.

("Are you planning on seducing me, Mr. Finn?"

"Always.")

He sits outside the hospital for a bit. Perched on a fence. Watching the cars and the people go by. It's not quite a farm in Iowa. Different sort of cow. He should go in, or go away, but instead he's sat there. Thinking.

("You stayed strong throughout, Buffy. You never even cried."

"Oh, I cried. I cried so hard, I didn't think I was gonna be able to stop.")

And she gave him the day off. She gave him the day off.

So why are you still here, maggot?

Where else is there? Riley walks some more. It's a long way to the campus. Maybe he'll head there. Good a place as any. He wonders if they filled the Initiative in with concrete yet. Probably not. Typical government bureaucracy. He'll take a look. Just for curiosity. Just for old times sake.

The magic shop some how gets in his way. Must have zoned out. Dozed off at the wheel. All those late nights. He hears the bell ring and realises he's gone inside.

"Buffy isn't here," Anya says. 

There are buckets of seafood all over the place. Xander, a mouth full of nails, raises a hammer in greeting from the upper level. Giles is in the back, discussing something with a whole group of customers. Willow and Tara are arguing and giggling over books, conspiratorially close. Everyone's busy. And the shop smells of brine. He thinks he can hear the sea crashing just outside. He watches Anya ring up a sale with a cheery "come back soon! Buy more next time!"

"What's going on?" he asks.

"There are other worlds than these," Anya explains. "One is full of shrimp."

Yeah. That's a conversation that never ends well. (Who did star in the Matrix, anyway?) Magic. Pah.

"Right." He says, "I'm going now."

Anya's already distracted again. In his head she has cartoon dollar signs for eyes. The latest customer seems to be having the same thought, stammering as Anya not-so-casually suggests necessary additions to her purchases. They're busy. They've got their thing. Well, he's got his thing, too.

Just as soon as the sun goes down, says the voice. Soon as the dark comes to hide in.

(Is that you, John Wayne? Is it me?)

The sun is going down. It always does. That's the good thing about the sun. It's reliable. Round and round and round it goes -- astrophysics be damned; everything's relative. Goodbye sun. Not quite yet, but soon. Slip sliding down to the horizon. Pink sky at dusk. That's the good one, right? Time. Time. There's still time.

A young girl, sitting by a boarded up vacant lot tries to sell him a rose, and he almost does, but Buffy gave him the day off, so he shakes his head and dodges away from her mournful gaze and around the corner and Tower Records catches his eye, so he goes in. Air con blows chill. That's why the shiver, sure.

There's some nu-metal album out. Fangs on the cover. His arm itches. He wanders deeper in, fingers racks, slides CDs in, out. New stuff. Old stuff. A Beatles retrospective, heavily over-priced. Nineteen dollar Jude's a sad song. Flick flick flick through the rows and he's not even seeing names now, blurred titles, flick flick flick, tick tick ticking the sun on down.

Someone, the store stereo sings, saved, someone saved, someone saved my life tonight.

"Can I help you?" asks a clerk, pimple faced and eager. "Looking for anything in particular?"

What are you looking for? asks the voice, and he half expects it to call him pilgrim. 

What does he want? The clerk is giving him that anxious, oh-shit-I-picked-a-weirdo look. Riley finds himself wondering if it had been a work query or a lead in to a come on. He shakes the thought off, says, "No. Just looking. Thanks." And turns and walks right out of the store.

What do you want? Where are you going?

"Where am I going?" he asks out loud, staring at himself in a shop window. It's a Chinese food store. Turtle soup's on cheap. Isn't that illegal? The owner, a tiny woman, shoos him away with her broom. He walks on, walks away, walks down alleys.

Blipvert. Stolen frames. And.

Warehouse district. He's still carrying his guns, he realises. He's had them on him all day. Since the range. Freshly cleaned by the oil smell on them. Weight of bullets in his bag. Did he do that? Did he set out to shoot up his workplace, forgetting he didn't have one?

Vampires laugh at guns, but bullets still hurt them when they hit if you aim right. And he always does.

There are other worlds than these.

Sandy's waiting. Well, maybe not, he dusted that one. But in a way, they're all Sandy. Old clothes, old skin, sharp teeth. Pain. Penetration. It's all sex and death. He knows the psychology. He's read Freud and Jung. Hell, he's taught them. Analysis 101. Portrait of the Agent as a Jonesing Addict.

He realises he's just standing there. The vampires are getting itchy. Come in, go out. Hovering is bad. It attracts unwanted attention. And Riley's all about wanted attention, isn't that why he's here? To be wanted. To be needed.

He wants to be needed.

New Sandy clutches at him, coaxing. And Buffy is there, somehow, angry, accusing. And Spike too, what fun. The gun's a heavy, comforting weight. Their eyes all go wide. It's pretty hilarious but he doesn't laugh. He just turns. And there's the door. He can smell the sea again. Buffy shouts. Spike scoffs. Sandy whines. Vamp-pimp threatens.

He wants purpose. He craves purpose.

There's a tower, the voice tells him, at the centre of everything.

Riley moves. Sure, he's probably snapped, but what the hell. A door is a door is a door, except when it's a jar, and this one is wide open and waiting and he's gone, gone, gone through it, gun at the ready, feet hitting sand with perfect crunch, both hands, raise and squeeze, nice and smooth.

Crab for dinner, then. Howsabout it?

The half-dead cowboy almost smiles. Riley grins.

"Hile, gunslinger."


	4. Across the River

Forty thousand pieces flying in close formation, Riley thought and wondered where he heard that before. The helicopter rattled and shook, vibrated around him. His companions had practised thousand yard stares, and blank, square-jawed faces. He bit back the urge to ask "are we there yet?", turning instead to stare at himself in the tinted glass, at his dark reflection, the faded, hollow ghost in the glass.

("You're a soldier."

"I quit the government a long way back."

"We're not government. We're army. Just like you. It's not the Initiative, Finn. We don't do experiments. None of us give a damn what makes monsters tick. We just stop them."

"What do you need me for?"

"I think you can handle yourself.")

He could at that. All puns intended. Soldiers and guns. And they'd done Belize, boy howdy had they done Belize, he could still smell the burning flesh, feel the scars itch, remember the taste of bile after that night, the Peace Corps camp shredded, no survivors, no pieces even close to big enough, and Ellis had gone down, Graham lost an arm and Riley-- Well, Riley survived. Carried on carrying on, even though he had no idea where he was or where he was going, as usual.

"Major Finn." The pilot, cutting through memory. "We're on final approach."

Riley nodded acknowledgement, sitting up straighter. Military bearing. Good work, Agent Finn.

("It's deep undercover. No contact with civilians.")

Life in montage. He was in Central America, military funeral. He was on a plane. He was in Washington, debriefing, mental, physical. He was talking to a General with deadpan humour and intelligent, calculating eyes. He was in a helicopter. He was on tarmac. He was being hurried across grounds. He was in an elevator. He was going down, down, down.

("You trying to get as far away from her as possible)

Major Finn?" Without waiting for a response, the blue uniformed man waved him to follow. "Lots to do, little time. You're wondering why you've been brought here."

"Actually--" said Riley.

"You should be prepared to have your basic assumptions about the universe challenged." 

"I lived in Sunnydale," Riley said.

"Oh. Well, we can skip the whole first hour of this tour then. This way." He turned into what looked like an engineers wet dream, a room filled with equipment. "We've been -- you do have security clearance to be here?"

"Yes, sir." Riley's original Initiative security clearance had been restored in Washington, though he was assured the original project had been definitely closed down.

"Good, good." The man waved at two soldiers guiding what looked to Riley like a miniature robot tank. "Be careful! Do you have any idea how much that equipment costs?"

"Eighty-five thousand dollars," said one of the soldiers.

"It-- Well. Yes. Exactly!"

"We'll take good care of it, Doctor," added the other.

They grinned at Riley as they walked off, robotank between them.

"You see what I have to work with," the Doctor sighed, pushing through the next set of doors. "Here's why you were called in." He pointed at a small blue disc on a table, walking past it to get at the coffee machine. "It's -- is this lemon tea? Who put lemon near my coffee? Are you people trying to kill me?"

Riley pretended he couldn't see one of the assistants nodding at the doctor's back, and picked the disk up. It lit up in his hand and he stared when a semi-translucent image of a ghoulish creature appeared floating above it, first in amazement and then in disgust when the scene panned out to show the armoured monster driving its claws into a man's chest, turning him old before Riley's eyes.

"Is this magic?" he asked.

"The disc? Arthur C. Clarke would say so."

"What is it?" Riley asked. "Demon? New form of vampire?"

"Ancient form," said the doctor and smirked. Riley just looked at him, and the man rolled his eyes. "You'll get that later."

"So this is another bug hunt?" Riley examined the disc for a switch before discovering he could turn the recording on and off by thinking about it. Neat. "Why all the secrecy?"

"It's much bigger than-- Well, okay, yes, in a way, it is a bug hunt, but it's bigger than you're thinking." The doctor nodded at the disc. "Your expertise at fighting non-human enemies is one of the reasons you were recommended, but if that was our only qualification, we have thousands of people to choose from. We want something a little more unique. There's a rare gene that allows certain people to activate certain technology."

"You know I have it because the hologram thing worked," Riley said. "That was a test?"

"That and we have a complete record of your DNA. Professor Walsh was extremely thorough. Amazing work, really--" The doctor noticed the assistant listening in and quickly added, "highly immoral of course, no sense of ethics. Come on, there's something else you need to see."

Carrying his coffee, the doctor headed for the far doors. Riley carefully put the disc on the table and then strode after him, long legs quickly catching him up to the shorter man.

"This isn't a battle, Major Finn. It's a war. There's a good chance that if you come out with us, you'll never come back. Mostly because I expect you to heroically sacrifice yourself to keep me alive should the occasion call for it. Wait a moment." He opened a door, leaned in and said, "we need a demonstration."

Riley couldn't hear what the man inside said -- over the doctor's head he could just glimpse a room that reminded him of an aircraft control tower, all screens and keyboards and the big glass window -- but it was clearly an affirmative, for the other man quickly closed the door and moved off down the corridor again.

"You've got experience working deep cover, having no connection to your friends or family. You've got a good record--"

"Not exactly a clean one," Riley said.

"You should see your commanding officer's." Armed guards moved out of their way to let them into a huge room. The control-tower-like place was up on their left, and the doctor waved to the man behind the window. "You're used to being in the middle of nowhere, which also works for us, because where you're going is about as far from anywhere as you can get."

Riley looked at the massive stone ring at the end of the ramp.

"Some kind of gate." He guessed. "A portal -- a hellmouth?"

"Oh, no," the doctor said. "This one doesn't go down -- it goes up, millions of light years up. To a galaxy far, far away, with strange new planets and strange new people who will shoot at you or try and eat you."

("You trying to get as far away from her as possible, Riley?")

Warning lights flashed. Motors rumbled. Things thudded.

"Also," the doctor added, "you'll get to save the universe on a daily basis. Which, I might add, doesn't make up for the lack of good coffee."

There was a loud fwoosh and a plume rushed out of the gate, making the doctor jump back a little, though it came only a few metres close to them. Riley didn't move at all, watching as it sank back, forming a vertical pool of water inside the ring.

"The food's terrible," the doctor said, "but we're needed."

"I'm in," Riley said.

"Me more than you," the doctor added, "in case you missed the bit about self-sacrifice."

Riley grinned at him in the shimmering blue light. "I'm in."


	5. With A Bullet

Afterwards, they crawled into bed together. They didn't talk, there was no decision that Riley could remember, they just did what felt right and it worked out somehow. The lights were soft and warm. There was music playing, someone singing, soft and muted. The breeze, light and cool on their heat flushed skin, carried the sweet scent of night blooming plants. This wasn't Buffy, no all consuming inferno; more the slow banked warmth of the farmhouse hearth. It was new, a whole new world. It was like coming home. It was just like coming home.

Oz's teeth grazed Connor's throat and the boy made this needy, whimpering sound that skipped right past the commentary on how small and young and vulnerable Connor looked and went straight to Riley's groin. Riley tried not to gasp. Oz just smiled his small, slow, smile.

"You want this," he said. "I can smell it."

"We can," Connor agreed and Riley remembered the small frame masked a strength like Buffy's, remembered Connor could throw them both around the room without breaking a sweat, that they could touch him only because he let them. Oz was still smiling, hands on Connor, dark varnished fingernails, guitar-calloused fingers stroking skin and they're pale, jesus, they're all pale, because they live in the Sunshine State but they spend all their time in the dark with the monsters and suddenly Oz's calm was just a little too unnatural, his smile just a little too feral.

I killed a girl tonight, Riley thought wildly. And this--

Everything was clear. Everything was clearly fucked up. And, Jesus, this was Angel's underage not-so-androgynous-when-all-naked-like-that son, the Angel he'd fought, the Angel with whom he'd always shared Buffy no matter what she'd said, and once he'd put Oz in a goddamn cage, and

"You rescued me," Oz said calmly, like Riley had spoken out loud. Maybe he had. Connor was nodding and then he was in Riley's lap, and Oz was right there, the two of them moving with loose, predatory grace. "Let it go."

"Let us," Connor said and then they were kissing, messy, amateur, enthusiastic and when they slipped apart Oz was there to fill the gap with sure and quiet confidence.

It was good. Riley knew how to make it good. He'd had practice keeping up with the appetites of the mystically enhanced. And they were nicely matched, Connor speeding them up, Oz slowing them down, Riley both and neither, each filling the parts the others needed, surrendering themselves to it, giving their all and finding it just left them more to give, finding themselves upraised and enriched. Oz was water, placid, deep. Connor was fire, bright, greedy. Riley was earth, solid, dependable. The breeze was cool and sweet. They came together in an easy entanglement of limbs, in joyous haste and languid passion, parts of a whole, and it was good, better, best, perfect. It was right.

Eventually, it was morning. Riley woke slowly, happily, sated and restored, good like he hadn't felt since early in the summer after Adam but better than -- no slow creeping cancer here, nothing to twist him up inside. Just peace and tranquility. And the two in the bed with him, all entangled. Being horizontal made the differences in their height less profound but both were small under his hands, Connor's hair long, smooth and soft, Oz's short and the sort of blue-black that made him think of comic books, rough spikes tickling his palm. Riley smiled softly, then grinned when Connor stirred under his hand, made a muffled, sleepy noise of protest, when Oz stretched and resettled next to him.

"Breakfast?" Riley asked and got affirmative if wordless responses from them both.

He carefully untangled himself, sliding from the bed, and smiled as they moved together into the gap he'd left, snuggling. Neither of them were marked -- Oz, careful, never bit hard enough to break skin and, anyway, Connor healed too fast for scratches and bruises to survive a few hours sleep. Riley was happy enough to wear the reminders for all of them. His own scars looked thin and faint compared to the blushing remnants of their kisses, visible on his neck even after he'd covered those on his body with shorts and a T-shirt.

There are faint noises all around him when he stepped out into the corridor. The Hyperion hotel was waking up. Riley wandered down to the first floor, knowing where the kitchen was without knowing how he knew, just giving into that instinct for direction, like when he went driving, letting the roads take him where they wanted. He was thinking about grabbing Angel's convertible, taking Connor and Oz up into the Hollywood Hills, when he turned the corner and almost bumped into Lorne.

"Well aren't you all bright eyed and bushy tailed! Slept well?" Riley nodded and Lorne smiled. "Of course you did, sweet cheeks. You get in there and get yourself some breakfast while there's still coffee to be getting."

Riley nodded. "Lorne--"

"No time to talk," the demon interrupted him cheerfully. "It's all go. Things to see, people to do, you know how it is."

"Not really," said Riley truthfully, and was rewarded with a sunny smile.

"You will," Lorne said. "Oh, there's an open mic tonight. You should come along." And he was gone before Riley could reply, singing "good morning sunshine" in a pleasant cabaret voice.

Riley headed into the kitchen and made breakfast. He found he was perfectly okay with having a singing demon around. The big box of fresh muffins definitely helped. He was in the middle of a fry up when Connor wandered in, practically naked and perfectly at ease. Oz followed soon after in jeans and shower-damp and between them they managed to cook a feast. The food tasted good despite, even somehow because of, their mediocre bachelor cooking. A ridiculous amount of food ended up prepared and just as quickly gone as the others in the hotel bustled in and out and around them. 

Somewhere along the way Connor gained clothes and Riley got in a shower and then cleaning up after breakfast somehow merged into cleaning up the kitchens into making repairs and redecorating rooms and the whole day practically blurred past. Riley found he liked working with his hands, wondered if this was how Xander felt, actually building things, creating instead of destroying. He'd never smiled this much, not even on the farm. They fit together, playing to strengths, covering weaknesses, laughing together, touching whenever they could, whenever they wanted, and the work became less work and more play, a game to which only they knew the rules.

"Calvinball!" said Connor suddenly and Oz smiled wide and Riley laughed and somewhere in there morning became afternoon became evening.

The crowd had gathered in the lobby while they washed up. Wesley and Gunn were there, at the edges, and Angel too, looking down over it all, and for the first time that day he hesitates. He would have taken a step back, but Oz and Connor were there and for all their smallness and his size, they would not be denied and they had the muscle to back it up. Like Buffy, but better, he thought, and took a deep breath and let them steer him to meet the others.

"Riley," said Wesley.

Gunn nodded. "How's it hanging?"

"I just--" Riley found himself without words, but the other men both nodded.

"We know," Wesley said. "No one blames you, Riley. It was lucky you were there."

"Lucky?" Riley shook his head.

"Really," Wesley assured him, "it was for the best. There was nothing else you could do. She was lost to us."

"Yeah," said Gunn. "You did the right thing."

"Fred would have wanted it this way," Wesley said, touching his shoulder. "She hated being lost more than anything. You freed her, Riley. You saved her."

Riley blinked back sudden tears. "I'm sorry."

("I'm so sorry," Fred said and raised the gun and Riley pushed Jasmine (her flesh her holy flesh) aside, bullet burning a line across his shoulder, and his own was out and firing without conscious thought, and Fred's eyes widened in surprise just before her head snapped back and to the left (Freddie's dead that's what I said) and she fell and blood and brain matter splattered the books and Riley blinked.)

"Thank you," said Gunn, and suddenly pulled Riley into a bone-breaking hug. Riley patted his back. "Thanks, bro."

"Yeah," said Riley. They moved apart a little, smiling at each other, and Riley was about to speak when Connor tugged at his T-shirt.

"Come on!" he said. "They found Oz a guitar. We're up next!" He practically pushed Riley towards the stage. "You can play the drums."

"I've never played before," Riley said.

"Just fake it," Oz advised him, strumming his guitar. "I always do."

Riley laughed, taking his seat. Connor beamed at him. Oz smiled. When Riley looked up, he could see Angel on the balcony, looking down with approval -- and, beside him, the most beautiful Jasmine's smile lit up the entire room. Everything was perfect and he was a part of it, needed and needing, all equals, all together as one. A whole new world, just waiting its cue to start. He grinned harder and raised his sticks, beating out his words.

"One, two, a-one-two-three-four!"


End file.
